


Waterloo

by austenfan1990



Series: To Love and to Part [3]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>'Recently Arabella has made a habit of looking at him when he is unaware. Not that Jonathan disliked being looked at; especially when the particular gaze he had fallen under was his wife’s but after Waterloo, something had changed within him.'</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waterloo

Recently Arabella has made a habit of looking at him when he is unaware. Not that Jonathan disliked being looked at; especially when the particular gaze he had fallen under was his wife’s but after Waterloo, something had changed within him.

It was in early July, exactly two weeks after the battle, that he had come home. His second homecoming had not been as joyous as the first. Perhaps it was the altered surroundings: they, after all, were no longer in London but at Ashfair where it was nowhere near as warm and inviting and Arabella could not help blaming herself a little for not having done more to improve the state of the house or its garden.

But she was being unduly harsh on herself. They had been married for barely a year before they moved to town and during that time, Jonathan’s attention had been wholly occupied with being a magician rather than a husband. Throwing himself into the task of refurnishing their home or trying his hand at landscape gardening was not only the farthest thing on his mind – the mere idea of doing them had not entered his head at all.

However, no one could say that Mrs Strange had not done everything she could to make their town house in Soho Square – and everyone was of the opinion that it was so – exceedingly pleasant and inviting. This was in contrast to Mr Norrell’s, which although very impressive with its library of magical tomes, lacked a certain warmth which the Stranges possessed in abundance regardless of how eccentric Mr Strange could be at times.

That dear eccentricity of his was barely visible now, thought Arabella. She could not forget the haggard, haunted look in his eyes when he came through the doors of Ashfair that afternoon. She had been in the drawing room when he returned and upon hearing his voice in the hall, she made her way there without anyone noticing. Thus unobserved, she watched him give his hat and coat to Mary, his countenance grave and unsmiling which was so unlike him. In fact, Arabella had had the fleeting, terrible impression that she would never see him smile again: so fearfully grey and grave he was.

But then he looked up, caught her eye and like frost beneath the sun, his solemnity thawed at the sight of her. She always had this effect on him; she did not understand why but never was she gladder of it than at that moment.

Jonathan had immediately gone to her, pulled her close into his arms and did not let her go for some time. Nothing was said between them; Arabella knowing instinctively that it was not her words but her presence which was needed and that the time for conversing would come later.

* * *

That time, however, came much later than she had anticipated. Whereas he had been eager, almost insistent, in relating his experiences in the Peninsula, it was not until a week after he had returned home that she began to have some semblance of what had occurred at Waterloo. Arabella was not wholly ignorant of the events which had taken place; she had read Wellington’s despatch and had sadly seen De Lancey’s name upon the ‘butcher’s bill’ – Jonathan had once told her that this was what Wellington called the casualty list – and on this occasion, Arabella found that it was a tragically apt description.

‘His Grace prayed that this was to be his last battle and I fervently hope this will be my last one too,’ said Jonathan one evening and when they had taken to their customary habit of sitting in front of the fire. The only difference was that he was not to be found with his nose buried in a book (he found that he could not concentrate for extended periods of time) and she was not to be found sketching him (how could she when Jonathan was in such a state?).

‘I hope Napoleon will not think of returning again,’ replied Arabella with no little concern. ‘Not like with Elba. And certainly not so soon.’

‘No, they are determined not to let him repeat what he did, Bell. There is talk of putting him on Saint Helena and if so, I do not envy him,’ he pronounced darkly. ‘It is hard enough to be separated from those we love without being sent to such an abominable place.’

Thus having worked himself into such a mood, and with his wife’s assurances and her lips pressed lightly to his forehead, it was more often than not that the Stranges found themselves retiring to their bedchamber, Jonathan seeking solace in his wife’s arms while Arabella was more than happy to reciprocate, taking great comfort in the gentle rise and fall of his chest when he finally fell asleep, soothed and sated, beside her.

However when it became worryingly clear that this appeared the only way in which her husband could attain a dreamless night’s sleep – as much as she enjoyed and delighted in their conjugal connexions, doubtless a string of ten of them in as many nights _and_ in a row would try any devoted wife – Arabella could not be easy. She had endeavoured all through her married life – and before then, perhaps from the moment they had met – for Jonathan to be independent and this dependency upon her, even though she was his wife, would not do.

She thus began to distance herself in the evenings and it achieved the opposite of what she intended. Jonathan, hurt and confused by what he perceived as her sudden coolness, began to take long walks in the surrounding area around Ashfair after dinner, only returning to the house and their chamber when she had given up waiting for him and fallen asleep. Arabella went after him several times but she was at a disadvantage; for her husband was a magician and magic proved to be exceedingly useful when he had no wish to be found.

This continued for some days but at last they reached an understanding, and upon hearing her reasons, a glimmer of the Jonathan of old came to the fore:

‘I had rather thought, Bell, that you would have liked my attentions,’ he said in some annoyance. ‘After all, I do recall you agreeing with me that I hadn’t had the time to be married.’

‘Yes, Jonathan, but surely everything should be in moderation!’ Despite herself, she could not hold back her amused smile which then turned into a laugh at his sheepish expression.

‘Oh. I hadn’t the faintest idea – I –’ he began and Arabella suddenly felt they had returned to the early, awkward days of their courtship. ‘If I have inadvertently caused you distress, or compelled you into doing something against your will…’

How typical of him to have both understood and misunderstood her at the same time! She took his hands in hers with a sigh, taking in his bemused face and the contrast of his now heavily grey-tinged locks.

‘On the contrary, you have done neither of these things. If I have cause for distress, it is only for the inky cloak that you have donned of late. It does not fit you well.’

‘Nor do walks around Ashfair or the absence of my wife’s nocturnal company,’ replied Jonathan, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. His gaze turned downwards to their joined hands. ‘It is not easy to reconcile myself with what happened there, Bell. It will take time. Perhaps longer than we both would like.’

‘You shall not be alone, my love. My only concern was that you would grow dependent on me.’

At this, he fixed her with a look which almost seemed to convey the sentiment: _Then I fear I am already a lost cause_ but said nothing.

They lapsed into companionable silence. Then she said softly, ‘Was there not a book you wanted to write? A book to put down your thoughts on magic?’

Jonathan was barely able to suppress a grimace at the word ‘magic’. When it had once brought about a myriad of reactions – from excitement to wonder and arrogance, it now seemed almost anathema to him.

‘I am no longer a practical magician, Bell.’

‘Indeed? Is this the same magician who used it to evade me for the past three nights?’

Jonathan coloured. ‘You know precisely what I mean.’

Beneath his wife’s hand, his own began to tremble and he quickly drew it away, cursing under his breath. Barely perceptible at first, the tremors had progressively become more frequent and noticeable since his arrival at Ashfair. Jonathan surmised it was the aftermath of La Haye Sainte – never would he be able to forget that wretched farmhouse and the terrible hours which had passed there – which was the cause. But even now, when his thoughts were trained wholly on his wife, he could not rid himself of them.

They did not escape Arabella’s notice.

‘I have heard writing is an excellent exercise,’ she said in an effort to both distract and direct him. ‘Besides, Jonathan, writing a book on magic is not the same as practising it. And perhaps you will find writing as enjoyable as I do sketching.’

Jonathan hummed in appreciation. ‘I have missed your sketches, Bell. They also have added effect of making you quite serene afterwards. I do not know what I have missed more.’

She struck him lightly, playfully upon the arm. He returned her gesture with an artless smile, the widest she had seen since his return from Waterloo.

‘I gather Norrell and Lascelles will not like to hear of a book,’ he ventured pensively. ‘It’s been said the latter nearly had a fit when he read _The Edinburgh Review_.’ Although he said the last in an even tone, his expression was not at all sympathetic.

‘Well, Mr Norrell and Mr Lascelles will not need to hear of it until the last moment, if we can help it.’

Jonathan chuckled, affection emanating warmly from his gaze. ‘My wife.’

* * *

The following morning, Arabella awoke to find herself alone. Alarmed, and hastily throwing a shawl about her, she descended the stairs, wondering whether Jonathan had once again decided to take the air around Ashfair. She instead found him seated at the small desk in the drawing room, heaps upon heaps of books scattered about every available surface. Had the table not been already laid out for breakfast, she had no doubt he would have covered that too.

‘Jonathan!’ she breathed, relief and surprise mingling in her voice.

‘Morning, my love,’ he said, his nose buried in a particularly dusty old tome. ‘Sleep well?’

When she did not reply – she was in fact momentarily incapable of speech – he at last looked up.

‘Good heavens, Bell, you will catch your death of cold if you stand there so!’

Setting down his book, he indicated the chair opposite him which she had only just noticed. ‘Ask Mary to help you dress for we have work to do.’

‘ _We_ , Jonathan?’

‘Certainly,’ he replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘I am not writing a book without you.’


End file.
